The Scar
by Elf Eye
Summary: How did Aragorn get his scar on his lip and Legolas his scar on his back? Part of The Nameless One series based on Legolas and Aragorn having been fostered together in Rivendell.
1. Chapter 1: The Scar

Aragorn pulled his sword free of the Orc and wiped the blade clean with a handful of grass. On the other side of the clearing, Gimli yanked his axe from the brain of a warg whose limbs still twitched spasmodically. Legolas meanwhile had set about recovering his arrows from the bodies of his fallen foes. It was not true, as the Rohirrim thought, that Legolas' quiver magically replenished itself after every battle. Instead, whenever conditions permitted, the Elf would methodically search the battlefield, not only retrieving his own shafts but scavenging any of those of his enemies that might be made to serve.

After the three friends had seen to their weapons, they turned to cleansing the forest of Orc and warg carcasses before the decaying bodies could pollute its environs. The three dragged the carcasses into the center of the clearing and heaped fallen branches over them. Setting the branches afire, they stood vigil, watching carefully lest an errant ember set the forest alight.

Dawn was breaking before their task was done and the three friends could resume their trek through the forest. Sauron had fallen, but pockets of his creatures still remained, and King Elessar had deemed that he himself should from time to time be numbered amongst the scouts who hunted down these remnants of the Third Age. Of course, whenever he did so, Gimli and Legolas insisted that they accompany him. Together the three had ranged widely through the restored realm of Gondor and Arnor, sometimes even to the very border of the Shire, where Gimli and Aragorn would set up camp while Legolas would slip into the land of the Hobbits to summon Merry, Pippin, and Sam. Elf, Man, Dwarf, Hobbit—the comrades would laugh and reminisce and wonder about the fate of Frodo, Bilbo, and Gandalf, who had departed from the Grey Havens only a little while after the defeat of the Dark Lord and the destruction of the Ring.

On this journey, however, the Three Hunters were traveling no further afield than Ithilien. And this morning, they were going no farther than it would take them to find a stream in which to bathe. The late skirmish had been so bloody that even Gimli felt himself soiled by the filth of their foes. Fortunately, Legolas had memorized every water source within Ithilien, and he led them unerringly to the nearest one. The sun was not even halfway to its noonday height when he parted some branches and gestured to a bend in a stream where the bottom was of fine sand. Then the Elf disappeared, no doubt, Aragorn thought, going off in search of soapwort, that plant whose leaves and stems, when bruised, would yield a cleansing lather. Meanwhile, Gimli and Aragorn happily stripped and immersed themselves in the cold, clear water, bringing with them their smallclothes, tunics, and leggings, for they meant to launder as well as bathe. Weighting their clothes with rocks so they might soak, the Man and the Dwarf scooped up handfuls of sand and scrubbed at their limbs and torsos. Before they had finished, Legolas reappeared, his arms laden with soapwort. Aragorn and Gimli gratefully accepted handfuls of the plant from the Elf. Sand was all very well for scrubbing limbs and chests, but neither Man nor Dwarf wished to clean their faces with the abrasive grains. Nor did they wish to get the grit into their beards and hair.

Looking at his two friends as they bathed, Legolas had to suppress laughter. The soapwort had turned their beards into white puffs. The effect was particularly striking on Gimli because his beard was more luxuriant than Aragorn's. The King had kept his facial hair neatly trimmed since his coronation, but Gimli's, as always, cascaded down his chest. Gimli noticed Legolas' mirthful looks. "What are you smirking about, o ye of the perfectly-pointed ears?" he growled in mock indignation. Cheerfully ignoring the Dwarf, Legolas dove under the water to rinse the soapwort from his hair. When he surfaced, both Gimli and Aragorn were waiting for him with handfuls of mud that they had dug out from the bank. With the sure aim of warriors, they pelted the startled Elf, who was at once transformed from a glistening specimen of elven beauty to a mud-caked simulacrum of an Orc, which, like Elves, have pointed ears.

The mud-caked Elf dove back into the water, and when he resurfaced, it was at a considerable distance from his roguish friends. To be altogether safe, however, before he swam back towards them, he waited until they had clambered out upon the bank to spread their clothes upon bushes. When he neared the bank, a smiling Aragorn tossed him a handful of the remaining soapwort, and Legolas set about washing his hair for the second time—which, as Gimli gleefully pointed out, he would have probably done anyway. The Elf, who had been pretending to sulk, broke out into a grin then, for he knew his friend was right. Laughing, he climbed out of the stream, spread his own clothes upon the bushes, and stretched out beside his friends in a patch of sun that had found its way between the branches of the trees.

As the three friends lounged about, waiting for their clothes to dry, Gimli noticed once again the scar that ran along a portion of Legolas' spine. That and a slight crookedness of the nose were the only imperfections on Legolas' body. There was also the birthmark on the Elf's arm that looked like the elven word for 'nine', but as Gimli shared that mark, he was not inclined to consider it a flaw. Nor did the Dwarf consider the sunburst near the Elf's navel to be a flaw, for it was too symmetrical and pleasing to the eye to detract from the Elf's perfection.

A cold breeze ruffled the bushes all about them, and Aragorn sneezed. Gimli glanced at the Ranger, whose body was seamed by numerous small scars, the reminders of years spent struggling against the forces of the Dark Lord. The most obvious of these marks was a scar upon his upper look that left a gap in the Ranger's mustache. It was not a hideous mark, however, but part and parcel of who the Ranger was. Gimli idly wondered about the engagement with the enemy that had left Aragorn with the memento. "Aragorn," he said, "how came you by that scar on your lip?"

"Legolas," Aragorn replied laconically.

Gimli was puzzled. "Legolas?" he repeated. "What has Legolas to do with my question?"

"Legolas gave me this scar," Aragorn explained.

Gimli stared open-mouthed. "Legolas gave you that scar," he repeated uncomprehendingly.

"Seems to be an echo hereabouts," Aragorn said dryly.

Gimli looked over at the Elf. "And I suppose," the Dwarf huffed "that _you_ are going to tell me that Aragorn gave you that scar on your back."

"He did, after a fashion," Legolas replied with a nonchalance to match Aragorn's.

"After a fashion," Gimli repeated.

"There is that echo again," smirked Aragorn.

Gimli sighed the sigh of the long-suffering. "Are you going to explain yourself," he grumbled, "or are you going to persist in playing word games?"

"Legolas had better tell the story," Aragorn replied, "for I was very young at the time."

Gimli turned back to the Elf. "Well?" he said expectantly. Legolas stretched and then rolled over on to his side. He crooked his arm and supporting his head upon his palm.

"When Aragorn was first brought to Rivendell," the Elf began, "Elrond decided that he ought to share a room with me. Elrond thought that, as I knew what it was to be fostered, Estel would bond more quickly with me than with Elrohir and Elladan. You may be sure, however, that I was not happy about the arrangement."

"I thought you and Aragorn have been great friends," Gimli said, puzzled.

Aragorn laughed. "We are now, Gimli, but that was not always the case. After all, _you_ were not always such good friends with Legolas."

The three friends shared a hearty laugh. When Legolas and Gimli had first been thrown together as members of the Fellowship, Elf and Dwarf had driven Gandalf wild with their bickering.

"Why did you not wish to share your chamber with Aragorn?" Gimli asked at last when they had quieted.

"First," replied Legolas, "we were far apart in age. He was hardly more than a toddler. I, on the other hand, was passing through the final stages of elven adolescence. I found it an offense to my dignity that I should be trailed by an urchin who had scarcely graduated from nappies to leggings. Then, too, I was much restricted by his presence. I couldn't engage in my usual pranks because Estel was always underfoot."

Gimli had a sudden image of Legolas raising his feet high to avoid stepping upon a miniature Aragorn. He snickered. Legolas gave him a baleful glance before continuing.

"It did not help," the Elf went on, "that Aragorn even then was a filthy human who emitted an odor that would have felled a fell beast had one happened to fly overhead."

Now it was Aragorn who looked balefully upon Legolas, who pretended not to notice as he went on with his tale. "The final blow—or the last straw, as Men say—fell on a day when Elladan and Elrohir set out to ride their horses to the Last Bridge to meet Gandalf, who was returning from one of his excursions to the Shire. I, however, was forced to remain behind to mind Estel. 'Why can't Erestor mind the scamp', I protested to Elrond. He raised his eyebrows at hearing me call Estel a scamp, for hitherto that had been an epithet most commonly applied to _me_. 'I am sure you know, Anomen', Elrond replied, 'that Erestor is busy finishing a manuscript for the Lady Galadriel. It must be ready in two days time, for that is when Glorfindel means to set out for Lothlórien'. I cast about for another candidate. 'Glorfindel hasn't got a manuscript to finish', I pointed out. 'The Lord Glorfindel has a troop to put through its paces,' Elrond retorted, 'for when he departs he wishes to leave the borders well-defended. There have been suspicious tracks in the forest hereabouts'.

I sighed, but as I did so I caught sight of Figwit passing through the garden, as he did so tripping over an urn and running into the edge of a lattice. 'What about Figwit', I said desperately. 'Figwit could look after the bra-the boy'. 'Figwit!' exclaimed Elrond. 'Would you wish destruction upon him?'

'Who? Figwit?'

'Oh, Figwit would survive, I am sure. Whether Estel would is another matter!'

"Since Figwit had once brought a gazebo crashing down upon Glorfindel, I had to concede that Elrond had a point. Sadly I gave up and went in to breakfast, where Estel promptly attached himself to me—and I mean literally, too, for his hands were sticky with jam. After breakfast, Estel still clinging to me, I betook myself to the library. There I moped about for a time hoping that Estel would grow tired of being indoors and would abandon me for the garden. Ai! The urchin found a tome about the Last Alliance that was extraordinarily well illustrated—Elrohir had a hand in it, I think—and he badgered me to tell the story behind each and every picture. He insisted on sitting in my lap, too, whilst I did so, and as he smelled exceptionally rank that day, my eyes soon filled with tears"

Listening to this story, Gimli found his own eyes filling with tears, and the Dwarf tried to stifle a laugh, which came out as a choking sound. Legolas looked at him and grinned. With the passage of years, the Elf had come to see the humor of the situation. Cheerfully he went on with the story.

"At length I heard Estel's stomach rumble, and I hit upon a plan for escaping his company. 'Estel', I said, 'it is several hours before lunch, but are you not hungry?' He told me that he was. 'I would filch you some food from the kitchen', I sighed, 'but I have grown too big to escape the notice of the Cook'. Estel at once looked interested. '_I_ am not too big', he declared. 'Let _me_ try!' I made a show of thinking the matter over. 'We-ell', I said at last, with seeming reluctance, 'I suppose when it comes to filching food that you _may_ be able to do as well as I once did'. Estel was indignant. 'Anything you can do I can do better', he cried. 'I suppose I may let you try', I said, still counterfeiting reluctance, 'but you must not forget that such an expedition takes great care. You must move very slowly if you wish to escape detection. It may be that in the space of an hour you will inch forward no more than a hand's breadth. Now I think on it', I went on, pretending to change my mind, 'I don't think you are—.' Before I could finish, Estel had shot out of my lap and bolted from the room. I moved scarcely a whit more slowly. I fled to my room, seized my kit, and fled into the forest."

Gimli's beard was now drenched with tears, and his shoulders shook with silent laugher. Aragorn, grinning, took up the tale.

"I remember well what happened next. I ran toward the kitchen and crouched behind a bush near its door. I was determined to prove to Legolas that I could steal with the best of them. As it happened, a merchant from Bree drove his wagon up just then, and the Cook came out to chaffer over his wares. He stood with his back to me. Seizing the opportunity, I darted into the kitchen, folded up the skirt of my tunic, and filled this improvised pouch with as many pastries as I could fit, never minding that several were squashed in the process. Then I slipped out the way I'd come and ran back to the library. Legolas was not there, of course, but I was neither surprised nor disappointed. I assumed that he had not expected me to return so quickly and thus had gone off to find something to occupy his time whilst he waited for me to accomplish my mission. Anxious to show off my winnings, I at once set about looking for him. As luck would have it, I started my search in the garden, where the Gardener, not knowing that Legolas did not want to be found, readily pointed out the path that he had taken into the forest. Young as I was, Glorfindel had already given me several rudimentary lessons in tracking. Moreover, I had been shadowing Legolas and had observed how he would follow a trail. So I set off with great confidence, certain that it would not be long before I caught up with my foster-brother."

"It was also to Aragorn's advantage," said Legolas, who now resumed the tale, "that I was not trying to disguise my trail. I was that eager to flee deep into the forest. Moreover," he continued, "I did not anticipate any danger from the rear. So on I hastened, never dreaming that I was being followed. But gradually my heedlessness grew the less, for the further I drew from Rivendell, the more I sensed the nearness of danger. Remembering what Elrond had said about suspicious tracks, I slowed my pace and proceeded with greater caution. At last I stood stock still. I smelled a sickening odor. Then, suddenly, I heard a rustling in the bushes behind me. The sound seemed to come from quite low, and I thought an Orc was crouched, waiting to pounce. At once I spun about, drawing my knife and springing toward my foe. As I broke through the bush I was bringing my arm down—and there was Estel, staring up wide-eyed and innocent of the fright that he had caused me. I checked my swing, but only just, and the tip of my blade nicked his lip."

Gimli let out his breath, not realizing that he had been holding it. "How dreadful it would have been had you slain him," he exclaimed in horror.

"Aye, Gimli, and the ghastliness of what I had almost done left me nigh witless for several moments. Fortunately, even then Estel was a stoic creature, so at least I did not have to contend with tears and sobs. I quickly recovered my wits and with a strip torn from my tunic, I stanched the flow of blow from his wound. As I tended to the cut, I realized with dismay that the sickening odor that I smelled did not emanate from Estel. No, it was indeed the odor of Orc that befouled the air. The enemy was near, and I looked anxiously at Estel. 'Estel', I whispered, 'do not speak. Nod if you can walk'. Estel pressed his lips tightly together and nodded. I helped him to his feet and gestured in the direction from whence we came. 'We must retrace our steps to Rivendell', I whispered, 'and quickly'. Again Estel nodded, and he took several careful steps toward safety. As for myself, I pivoted so that I might keep my face to the rear and thus spot any approaching foe, for I assumed that we must be between the enemy and Rivendell. As I backed away, I heard behind me the sound of branches breaking, and I spun about to urge Estel to be quieter."

Legolas paused and reached for a waterskin. As he satisfied his thirst, he noted with satisfaction that Gimli was fidgeting with curiosity. "It was not Estel made the noise, however," the Elf resumed solemnly. 'An Orc had crept out from behind a tree. With horror, I saw him raise his scimitar."

Aragorn now took up the tale. "Suddenly I heard the whistling noise made by something cutting through the air. Then I felt a tremendous blow. With the air knocked out of me, I found myself sprawled face down in the dirt, with something lying across my back. Just as quickly, the weight was removed. I heard a guttural scream and then a gurgling noise. I sat up and looked about. There lay a dying Orc, with Legolas' knife in its belly. Beside him knelt Legolas, bent over and gasping. His back was to me, and I saw that a red line ran down it, along the ridge of his spine."

Suddenly Gimli understood. "Legolas threw himself at you to knock you clear," he exclaimed, "and he took a blow from the Orc's scimitar."

"Aye, Gimli," said Aragorn, "but even though Legolas was injured, he had immediately rolled over and struck upward with his knife, gutting the Orc who bent over us intent on administering the death blow."

Impressed, Gimli shook his head. "Aragorn, I have oft said that ye lead a charmed life, but if ye do, it hath been Legolas who has served as the talisman."

Aragorn looked fondly at his elven foster-brother and nodded. "You speak the truth, Gimli. Legolas would have died for me that day."

"And not on that day only," Gimli observed thoughtfully. In his mind's eye he again saw Legolas desperately cutting his way through the army of Mordor in order to stand by Aragorn's side when the Man was beset by a great Troll. He saw, too, the Elf bravely plunging beneath the earth to follow Aragorn on the Paths of the Dead. 'I, a Dwarf, one accustomed to the dark places of the earth, scarcely had the courage to enter that place', he reminisced, 'but so great was the loyalty and love that Legolas bore for his foster-brother that he did not hesitate. What was it that he said? _To wherever it may lead_. Aye, that was it. Legolas would have followed Aragorn—did follow Aragorn—even when the path led to Death'.

"You followed him, too," Legolas broke in to his thoughts.

"Aye, lad, but I hesitated," Gimli replied sadly.

"You had reason to hesitate, for you are mortal and have a mortal's fear of death. Yet you overcame that fear. Yours was the greater bravery!"

"Legolas is right, Gimli," Aragorn interjected.

"Of course I'm right," exclaimed Legolas, with the insouciance that still drove the Dwarf wild on occasion. "And here is something else I am right about: Gimli, you must never think that your bond with Aragorn is less than mine, for you bear the Mark of the Nine, and no bond could be stronger than the one signified by that sign."

Gimli smiled gratefully at the Elf. He did not share Aragorn and Legolas' common upbringing in the household of Elrond, but at times like these it did not seem to matter. _All for one and one for all_. Yes, that is what Aragorn said on occasion, and he was right.

The Dwarf arose and felt his garments. "Dry enough to put on," he called out. Legolas and Aragorn arose as well, and soon the three friends were clad and ready to resume their patrol.

"Legolas," Gimli said as they strode from the clearing, "now I know how you acquired that scar on your back, but there is something else I would like to know."

"Yes, Gimli?"

"Your crooked nose, how came you by that?"

"Gandalf," Legolas replied laconically.

"Gandalf," repeated Gimli, puzzled.

"Echo," observed Aragorn dryly.

'Oh, bother it all', thought Gimli. 'I had better leave it for another day, for the story behind his nose is no doubt as elaborate as the one behind Aragorn and Legolas' scars'.

And as Gimli has left it for another day, so shall I.


	2. Chapter 2: The Nose

**Thanks to the following reviewers of Chapter 1: _kitsune, grumpy123, Joee1, Luna-Lunak, ArodieltheElfofRohan, Telcontar Rulz, Elfinabottle, dragonfly, lilypop, eradcliffe, CAH, Opalkitty, windwraith, _and_ fair rider_. I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you.**

**This chapter is just flat out silly, with no pretensions whatsoever to redeeming social value. Furthermore, the chapter contains a short (very short!) passage that could be called 'slash'. This passage is meant to be funny rather than erotic. Anyway, consider yourself warned: Abandon seriousness all ye who enter here. **

**Chapter 2: The Nose**

Gimli had a cold. His eyes were red-rimmed and rheumy. His throat was raw. His head ached from the pressure of blocked sinuses.

And then there was his nose. Sitting dejected at a table, ignoring the bread and cheese before him, Gimli crossed his eyes and glowered at that offending piece of anatomy. He was certain that it had swollen to twice—nay, thrice!—its former size, but its enlargement made it no better as an instrument for breathing. His nostrils were blocked like mineshafts after a rock fall. Air—breathable air, anyway—could not make its way through either shaft, although, also like a mine, seepage could. Rivulets of liquid oozed through the twin passageways, emerging to gather into droplets that trembled at the nose's reddened tip.

As Gimli indulged himself in these dreary reflections, the door to the hut was flung open, admitting a gust of cold, damp air. In its wake strode a cheerful Elf with a smile on his face and a song on his lips. In other words, Gimli saw at once that the Elf was going to be insufferable. "Durned Elf," the Dwarf muttered. "_He_ has never caught cold. _He_ has never caught anything. He has never had the measles, the mumps, the pox, the grippe, the whooping cough. And by and by he will never suffer from the rheumaticks or the gout." Indeed, it was true that the only times Gimli had seen the Elf ail in any fashion had been on those occasions of great sorrow when someone had been lost to them, such as when they had thought that Gandalf had perished in Moria or when Aragorn had fallen from a cliff and they had despaired of ever recovering him. On those occasions the Elf had grown very pale and quiet and had lost his appetite. His skin had felt cold and clammy to the touch, and he had suffered bouts of shivering even on warm days when the sun was at its zenith.

As Gimli remembered the Elf's grief—and his own fear lest his friend fade away—his mood softened. It softened all the more when Legolas raised his arms and Gimli saw that his hands were filled with athelas leaves—fresh ones, too! The Elf must have arisen at first light and gone out into the driving rain to procure those leaves. Now he crossed over to the fireplace. Picking up a rag, he removed the kettle from the hob, lifted its lid, and cast three leaves into the hot water. Replacing the kettle on the hob, he built up the fire. Soon the room was filled with steam laced with the aroma of athelas. By and by Gimli's headache eased, as did the soreness in his throat.

Somehow, however, the soothing influence of the athelas did not extend to Gimli's nose, which continued swollen and tender and red. Gimli daubed at it as he stared wistfully at Legolas' nose, which was never swollen or tender or red. It was, however, ever so slightly askew, as if it had been broken and not set right. Gimli remembered that once, when he had asked Legolas how his nose came to be crooked, the Elf had replied cryptically with one word: Gandalf. Now, badly in need of entertainment, the Dwarf decided to pursue the matter.

"Legolath," he wheezed, "why ith your nothe crooked?"

"My nothe, Gimli?" smiled the Elf, pretending not to understand.

"Aye, you rathcal, your nothe, that proterberanthe in the middle of that pretty fathe of yourth."

Legolas arose from his seat and went to a pot that simmered next to the kettle. Picking up a ladle, he filled two mugs with mulled wine. He returned to his place and slid one mug across the table to Gimli. The Dwarf could not taste the beverage, but it felt good to his throat, and the warmth made his chest feel less tight. "Thag you very buch," he said gratefully. Had he known it, he sounded exactly as Bilbo had long ago when he and his Dwarf companions had been feasted at the banquet that following their arrival via barrel at Lake-town. "And now tell me the shtory of your nothe."

"Once upon a time," began Legolas. The Dwarf sighed with contentment. That sort of opening promised just the sort of tale he needed: a comforting, predictable one at whose end everyone would live happily ever after.

"To be precise," continued Legolas, "it was only a few years before the Fellowship set out to attempt the destruction of the Ring. I believe Gandalf had a presentiment of what was to come, and he set out to scout the ways by which one might enter Mordor. However, a few months previously he had been injured in a skirmish with Orcs, and Elrond insisted that someone accompany Gandalf to safeguard his health. I was the one Elrond chose for the task."

Gimli chuckled. He could imagine Gandalf's face at being told he had to have a minder. Legolas grinned as well. "Yes," he said, "Gandalf was indignant, but Elrond proved to be as stubborn as ever Gandalf was. Gandalf's boots vanished one night and did not reappear until the wizard grudgingly agreed that I should accompany him."

"I am thurprithed that the old coot didn't thimply shteal a pair," observed Gimli.

"No doubt he would have," returned Legolas, "had he been able to find a pair wide enough. But we Elves have slender feet, I hope you know."

Gimli groaned and rolled his eyes. Yes, he did know. Legolas had flaunted his often enough, prancing atop snow fields and running nimbly across narrow bridges and even narrower tree limbs. Legolas caught his look and smirked before returning to his tale.

"We had many adventures along the way, too many to recount in one sitting, but as you have asked particularly about my nose, I shall only tell you what happened one day on our return journey. We became aware of the fact that we were being tracked by Orcs. Gandalf was rather enervated from his exertions, so he hid in a tree whilst I dispensed with the Orcs."

Gimli snorted at how casually Legolas spoke of 'dispensing with' Orcs.

"The first hundred Orcs I managed with no trouble," the Elf continued, "although I must admit that when the second hundred Orcs sprang out, I was a trifle tired. Even so, the first ninety-nine of that cohort weren't too much of a challenge. The last, however, looked like a cross between an Orc and a Troll. He was no Dwarf, I tell you!"

"Legolath!"

Legolas laughed and reached across the table to pat his friend on the arm. "Looking back, Gimli, I now know that it would have been a fine thing if a Dwarf had been to hand. However, there were none of those doughty folks thereabout."

"Probably locked up in Thranduilth dungeonth," huffed Gimli, pretending to be indignant.

"Lacking the assistance of one of those mighty warriors," Legolas continued airily, "and weary from having felled so many foes, I was at last borne to the ground by many blows, one of which struck and fractured my nose."

"Ah," said Gimli, nodding, "and thuth you thay that Gandalf wath rethponthible for your crooked nothe becauthe you were protecting him at the time."

"In part, Gimli, but let me finish the story. When Gandalf saw that I had fallen, he ventured to use his staff, for there was no alternative—it was either that or see me taken by the enemy. The effort of wielding his staff left him unconscious. Still, before he passed out he did succeed in destroying my foe. The Men who found us told me that they descried upon the dirt next to me the outline in ash of a large creature, a scimitar resting in a pile of soot that would have been a hand. No doubt that was my erstwhile assailant."

Gimli's eyes were wide open, even if his nostrils were not. "And from that day forth your nothe hath been crooked."

"Actually, no. A Man carried word to Elrond of our plight, and he sent Elves and horses to bear us back to Rivendell. We were carried to the House of Healing, and Elrond set about curing our hurts, which were many. I must say that I resisted Elrond's efforts to attend to my nose."

Gimli was surprised that Legolas had not been eager to correct the deformity, however slight.

"Why did you not witht Elrond to heal your nothe?"

"For one thing," Legolas replied, "I was ever so tired of being told that I was 'pretty'. My appearance has been a trial to me, Gimli! It rarely has worked to my advantage or the advantage of my fellows. In fact, I can think of only one occasion: that time when Glorfindel wished to scout out Bree-land, for rumors had reached Imladris that Haradhrim spies and their allies had been visiting that country. I was chosen to accompany him, for it suited his needs that I might masquerade as being even younger than I was. My face was not manly in the eyes of Men, so they thought I was a very young boy of their race. Glorfindel wished to pass as a harmless trader, and my innocent appearance was much in favor of the ruse."

"Legolath," Gimli pointed out, "in that cathe your appearanth wath of youthfulneth. You did not thay that Glorfindel chothe you on account of prettineth. You thaid you were tired of being called 'pretty', but I do not thee that you have been dethcribed in that fathshion."

Legolas grimaced. "You yourself," he gently chided Gimli, "only a little while ago spoke of 'that pretty fathe" of mine."

"I meant nothing by that," Gimli protested.

"Aye, Gimli, I know," relented Legolas, "but you must allow that a pretty face can be a positive hindrance. When I journeyed with Glorfindel, Men were lulled into complacency by the fact that he was accompanied by one who was a child in their eyes. I must perforce concede that a youthful appearance may be useful upon occasion. But to be 'pretty', as opposed to merely 'youthful', is hardly ever a favorable circumstance. A warrior of fearsome appearance, even if young, need not always fight, for his foes may back down at the sight of him. I have never been so lucky as to frighten my foes simply by virtue of my appearance! And then, well, sometimes there is another sort of problem." Here the Elf suddenly blushed so that the very tips of his ears turned red.

"What ith thith other problem?" asked Gimli, curious as to why the Elf had suddenly changed color.

"We-ell," said Legolas slowly, "any Elf I encounter knows straightaway that I am male. Men, however, do not always seem to catch on so quickly. I can't tell you the number of times that Men, seeing my smooth skin, my beardless face, my delicate features, and my long hair have mistaken me for a female Elf!"

"Ah," said Gimli sympathetically, "we Dwarfth have a thimilar problem. You are thmooth-shkinned, which Men expect of a female. Our women are hairy, which Men expect of a male. They are often bewildered ath to which of uth ith which."

"Ah, but it is worse for me, Gimli. A Man who mistakes a female Dwarf for a male one is not likely to bother her about—to bother her. However, a Man who mistakes a male Elf for a female is likely to, um, pester that unfortunate Elf." Legolas' blush had been fading, but now it returned in full force.

"Oh, ho!" chortled Gimli, suddenly understanding. "Yeth, that _would_ be a problem, I reckon."

"Truly. I cannot count the number of times that I have left Men badly disappointed upon the discovery of their mistake. Why, even Aragorn, when he has been drinking, has become confused upon occasion."

"Aragorn!"

"Yes! Last week, for example, when he and I stopped in Bree, I passed a dreadfully uncomfortable night at the Prancing Pony. We shared a bed, of course, and he kept throwing his arm over me, caressing my hair, nuzzling my neck, and muttering 'melethron-nîn'."

"Melethron-nîn?"

"My beloved," translated Legolas, blushing an even deeper shade of red.

"Whatever did you do?" marveled Gimli.

"I tried speaking to him, but whenever I opened my mouth, his tongue—oh, never mind!"

Gimli wondered what color was the richer red: crimson or scarlet. Whichever it was, that was surely the color of Legolas' face. At length, however, the blush that had sprung to Legolas' face receded slightly and he resumed his tale.

"I tried to shake Aragorn awake, but when I had one hand on either shoulder, he suddenly rolled over, so that I found myself trapped in an embrace beneath him. He was rather hard—I mean it was rather a hard situation to deal with."

"Legolath, how did you finally ekthricate yourselfth from thith predicament?"

"I thrashed about, but that only seemed to, um, increase his, his, um, his confusion. At last, well, I kneed him in the groin."

"In the groin?"

"Yes, rather low in the groin, I might add."

Gimli winced momentarily, but then the humor of the situation outweighed his empathy for the unfortunate Ranger. He began to laugh. Legolas scowled at him.

"Gimli," he lamented, "you do me an injustice. You do not understand how embarrassing such a case may be. It's hard out there for an Elf!"

Gimli laughed all the more at that. At length, however, he recovered.

"Well," he gasped, "you have explained why you never let Elrond set your nose."

Legolas noticed that the Dwarf's laughing spell seemed to have opened his nasal passages. He forgot his indignation at his pleasure at having been of service to his friend. Cheerfully, he resumed the tale.

"Actually, Gimli, Elrond overbore my objections—I was too weak to continue obdurate—and in the end he did attend to my nose. He manipulated it until it was once again straight and then glued a sort of protective tent over it to protect it whilst it healed. It looked rather like a bird's beak, and you may be sure that Elladan and Elrohir were immensely amused at my appearance. They were joined in their merriment by Orophin and Rúmil, who had arrived bearing messages from the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien."

Here Legolas paused and smiled gently at Gimli, who sighed at the memory of the Lady Galadriel, to whom he had given his heart when the Fellowship sought sanctuary in Lórien after fleeing Moria. After giving the Dwarf a few minutes to indulge in wistful reflections, Legolas resumed the story.

"Fortunately Haldir had not accompanied his brothers on this mission. I do not think I could have endured being twitted by Haldir. He doesn't mean to, but he can be _so_ officious upon occasion."

"Upon occasion!" cried Gimli. "Upon _occasion_? _Always_, don't you mean, and it in't officious he is—it's downright persnickety!"

"Same story, different versions and all are true," shrugged Legolas, quoting an ancient elven proverb. But by now something puzzling had occurred to Gimli, and he forgot all about Haldir.

"Legolas, you said that Elrond straightened and bandaged your nose. Yet it is crooked. Pray explain this mystery."

Legolas grinned. "In part I have Figwit to thank for the current state of my nose."

Gimli groaned. "Figwit! Why am I not surprised!?"

"Yes, Figwit," continued Legolas. "After lying abed for several days, I was at last given leave by Elrond to arise and go into the garden. There I found Figwit, who was whiling away the hour before the noon meal. 'Legolas', he cried, 'I am so glad that you are up and about. I have just finished composing a poem in honor of the Lady Arwen, and I would be so pleased if you would listen to it and tell me what you think'. Figwit, as I am sure you know, worships the ground Arwen walks on, the bench Arwen sits on, the bed Arwen lies on—"

"Yes, yes," interrupted Gimli, "I know that. Everyone knows that."

"It is Elrond's opinion," continued Legolas, "that Figwit's infatuation with Arwen accounts for his clumsiness, for surely no Elf shares his propensity for falling into fountains, tripping over leaves, walking into walls, falling down stair, falling _up_ stairs—"

"I _know_, Legolas," exclaimed Gimli. "Pray return to the story!"

"Oh, yes. Well, he came toward me eagerly, tripped over the edge of a flagstone, and _literally_ thrust a sheaf of papers into my face."

"Literally? As in…?"

"Literally."

"Of course."

"The protective tent over my nose was crushed," Legolas went on, "as was my nose. Figwit apologized profusely and stumbled off in search of Elrond, who hurried to the garden and led me back to the House of Healing. I could not have found my own way, for my eyes had filled with tears at the pain of having my nose broken for the second time."

Gimli's own eyes filled with tears out of sympathy for the Elf, and he sniffled.

"Do not cry, Gimli," Legolas said in alarm, for he did not wish to be the cause of any further nasal congestion.

Gimli obediently wiped his eyes and daubed at his nose, and Legolas continued with his story.

"Elrond again set my nose and erected a second tent over it. Then I once again took to my bed. Elrond did not order it, but I was so vexed at the thought that I would continue to have that ridiculous beak set in the midst of my face that my only thought was to crawl under a blanket and hide myself."

"But you said yourself that you did not wish to be considered pretty," Gimli pointed out.

"There is," Legolas retorted, "a great difference between having an ordinary appearance and being a figure of ridicule."

"That is true," conceded the Dwarf, "but, Legolas, you have described Elrond as having once again straightened your nose. Yet it _is_ crooked. Will you _never_ explain this mystery!?"

"Gandalf," Legolas said promptly and enigmatically. Gimli groaned.

"Gandalf again!" the Dwarf exclaimed. "You began the story with Gandalf; how is it that the tale returns to him?"

"Have you not noticed that Gandalf is somewhat fearful of spiders?"

"Aye, I have," smirked Gimli, who had witnessed some interesting—not to mention desperate—maneuvers on the part of the wizard in his attempts to avoid contact with arachnids.

"There is a good reason for that. On our trip to the border of Mordor, Gandalf had an unfortunate encounter with a spider—and a rather large one, too."

"Large as in Mirkwood large?"

"Aye, Gimli."

The Dwarf shuddered. He had grown up on his father Glóin's stories about the dreadful Mirkwood spiders that had captured Glóin and his fellows on their way to Erebor. It was a lucky thing that Frodo's uncle Bilbo had proved to be so resourceful against the fearsome creatures. Anxiously, the Dwarf listened as Legolas continued his story.

"A few days after I reinjured my nose, Gandalf persuaded me that I could not lie abed much longer without that fact being remarked upon more than the nose itself. Reluctantly I arose and accompanied him to the garden. I did insist on breaking fast in the privacy of a grove rather being exposed to view in the Hall. Satisfied that at least I had gotten out of bed, Gandalf agreed. To the kitchen Gandalf went, and he fetched curds and whey to a sheltered spot where I had settled myself upon a bench. As for Gandalf, he made himself comfortable upon a low mound of grass. Thus the Grey Wizard sat on a tuffet, eating his curds and whey. There came a big spider and sat down beside him. Now, this big spider was not anywhere near as large as a Mirkwood one. Still, it _was_ a spider, and in dread Gandalf leaped to his feet. He seized his staff and spun about, intending to blast the arachnid."

"And as he pivoted he struck you upon the nose," finished Gimli.

Legolas grinned. "Aye, Gimli. It hardly need be said that he was horrified at the mishap. 'I am so sorry, my lad', he cried. 'I will fetch Elrond straightaway so that he can set your nose anew'. I did not protest, but the minute he was out of sight, I fled into the forest. I had no mind to suffer through any more manipulations of my nose. Nor did I wish to endure another day with a beak glued upon my face. And so for several days, although beakless, I nested in a tree. Only when I was sure that the nose had begun to set did I return to Rivendell. Elrond offered to break the nose so that he might reset it, but I refused, preferring a crooked nose to the alternative. Men have a saying that 'The cure is worse than the disease', and I had begun to believe it true in my case."

As Legolas finished the story, the door banged open, and Aragorn entered, bearing in his arms a load of firewood. "How do you fare, Gimli?" he called to the Dwarf. "Do you begin to mend?"

"Aye, Aragorn. At the very least, my nose is much better."

"Good. Perhaps soon you will be able to join me when I travel to Archet to buy supplies. I should rather share a bed with you at the inn there than with Legolas, for he has lately taken to kicking in his sleep!"

This pronouncement set both Legolas and Gimli to laughing. Aragorn stared at them, nonplussed. Whatever was funny about being kicked in one's sleep?

"At least Legolas didn't break your nose," Gimli gasped at last.

"There are worse things than getting your nose broken," Aragorn muttered darkly.

This sent the Elf and Dwarf into another round of laughter. Aragorn stared at them a bit longer. However, to a mortal laughter is as contagious as disease, and at length the Ranger joined in the merriment. "I do not know what you are laughing about," Aragorn chortled, "but I cannot help myself." Suddenly, though, the Ranger sneezed. Legolas and Gimli at once stopped laughing and stared at him anxiously. He gave another sneeze.

Later that evening, his eyes red-rimmed and rheumy, his throat raw, his head aching from the pressure of blocked sinuses, the King of the combined realms of Gondor and Arnor lay under heaped-up quilts staring cross-eyed at the droplet of moisture that trembled upon the tip of his nose. "Legolath," wheezed the King, "you have never thuffered with your nothe ath I have."

Legolas exchanged a smile with Gimli. "No doubt you are right, melethron-nîn," the Elf said as he ladled broth into a bowl. "I am sure I have never suffered quite the same way on account of my nose."

"Oh," groaned Aragorn. "My earth are blocked, too. It thounded ath if you thaid 'melethron-nîn' inshtead of 'mellon-nîn'."

"You _are_ in a bad way," said Legolas. "You are shivering, too. Shall I climb into bed with you and lend you the warmth of my body?"

"You _kick_, Legolath!"

"Would you rather have Gimli, then?"

"He _shnoreth_, Legolath, and today my head will not endure the racket!"

In the end, Legolas heated rocks in the fire, wrapped them in rags, and tucked them next to Aragorn's body. Then the Elf settled himself to patiently watch over his patient for the remainder of the night. "No, Gimli," he said to the Dwarf, who offered to take a turn, "you are still recovering from your own illness. You take my bedroll and get some rest."

And so Legolas sat up the entire night, brewing possets and dosing Aragorn, replacing the heated stones as they cooled, and tucking in the quilts whenever the Ranger restlessly tossed them aside. And in quiet moments between nursing Aragorn the Elf contemplated the Ranger's nose, which, as Gimli's had been, was swollen and tender and red. By morning the Elf had decided that he was really rather lucky to have only broken _his_ nose. 'Better to break a nose three times than to suffer one cold', he murmured to himself. Perhaps Aragorn and Gimli came to agree with that sentiment, for in later years that saying was repeated as a proverb amongst both Men and Dwarfs. Of course, the proverb could have arisen coincidentally, just a colorful way of saying that to experience a sudden pain is better than to endure a long drawn-out illness. Whatever the case may be, however, it _is_ certain that Legolas Thranduilion was never heard to complain about his nose but was cheerfully accepting of the slight flaw–if flaw it was—that never interfered with his breathing and may have indeed lent a little flair to the otherwise perfect symmetry of his face.


End file.
